


The Neighborly Thing

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [242]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Anxiety, Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Fantasizing, M/M, Mild Daddy Kink, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-21
Updated: 2019-03-29
Packaged: 2019-11-26 23:34:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18186959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Bucky's new neighbor was famous. And gorgeous. And newly liberated from under like 12 feet of ice.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Celebrity/Fan. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).

Bucky's new neighbor was famous. And gorgeous. And newly liberated from under like 12 feet of ice. Even in Stark Tower, that was something else; it wasn't every day that a celebrity moved in down the hall. Not that they didn't try.

Stark Tower was a lot of things, depending on who you asked--eyesore, icon, a symbol of Tony Stark’s impressive...ego--but its popularity as a landing spot for the rich, famous, and reclusive had become a given. Maybe it shouldn’t have surprise Bucky, then, that Captain America, icon of another era and the most famous man on the planet, has shacked up on its next-to-last floor, taking refuge from his fans, from the curious behind five layers of security that Tony himself designed. Especially since Tony had been chomping at the bit to get a good look at the star-spangled guy ever since they first flashed his mug on the news.

He tried to play it off as nonchalant, though, the whole _my childhood idol now lives in my personal building_ thing--which to Bucky was the biggest red flag.

“I made a call to DoD,” Tony said with a shrug, “and they poked somebody at SHIELD. I mean, it was just sitting there open. It was the least I could do.”

“Uh huh.”

“Buck, the guy’s been in the permafrost for longer than you’ve been alive; hell, than I’ve been alive. And I’m ancient.” He ran a hand through his hair and made a face. “See? Look at all these goddamn gray hairs.”

Bucky snorted and flipped onto his side, leaned up to kiss the soft scratch of Tony’s face. “Yeah, you’re a real grandpa now, Tone. Jesus. You might as well get in your coffin now.”

“Hey, let’s see how you feel when you’re almost 50, kid,” Tony grumbled. Bucky could feel him fighting a smile. “Not all of us are still young and gorgeous.”

“He is.”

“Who?”

“The guy you just installed down the hall.”

He almost missed it, the way Tony shivered. Almost. “I didn’t install him," Tony protested. "I made a kind and generous offer which SHIELD, in a unique moment of wisdom, chose to accept.”

Bucky spread a hand over Tony’s chest, ran his fingers through the dark hair and silver. “Don’t try change the subject.”

“What subject?”

“Oh, you know.” He nuzzled Tony’s ear. “That you think Captain America is gorgeous.”

He felt Tony’s heart legit skip a beat. “Did I say that? I was listening to me. And I didn't."

“Mmm, not in so many words,” Bucky said. He licked at Tony’s jaw, bit, and let his hand trickle down Tony’s chest, over his stomach, towards the warm, interested swell of his cock. “But lucky for you, Stark, I can read you like a book.”

“It’s ok,” he said later, when he was pressed inside Tony again, when Tony was a bow underneath him, his hips up so high that Bucky’s thrusts were shallow, the fat heat of his cock tucked in deep.

“What?” Tony panted. Shit, Bucky thought, he was beautiful like this; sweating and strung-out, his fist closed around his dick and right on the edge, fucking dying to come. “What?”

He bent down, whispered: “It’s ok if you’re thinking about Captain America right now. Your boy down the hall.”

“He’s not my boy,” Tony said in the least convincing way ever.

“Isn’t he?” Bucky nipped at Tony’s chin. “You moved him in just like you did me, daddy.”

“Buck--”

“You put him someplace where you’d always know where he was. Where you could keep an eye on him. Where you could take care of him, just like you do me.”

Tony wound a hand in Bucky’s hair, his fist stuttering now, his hips desperate. “Jesus, baby, no. It’s not like that.”

“What, he’s not here for you to play with? Is that it? He’s not here for you to fuck?”

A moan, one that Bucky felt in his bones. “ _No_.”

Bucky slammed in hard, senseless. Now he was the one panting. “But you wish he was, don’t you? Hmmm? You wish you could go over there and ask for it, like you do with me. I know you do. Say it.”

Tony whimpered. Inside he went tight as a vise.

“Say it! You’re thinking about him, aren’t you, daddy? About how good it’d feel if he fucked you like this.”

There was a roar, the sound of his own heart, pounding, and then Tony was fluttering around him and there was hot wet between them and Bucky lost himself in the picture of Mr. Aw Shucks himself, Steve goddamn Rogers, holding Tony down in this bed and fucking him to kingdom come. God, the man was gorgeous, that perfect smooth face, that hair, those eyes that stared straight into the camera on television but always cut away shy in the hall. Never mind how old he was, how lost he looked; he was here now, back in the land of the living, and in that moment, balls deep in his sugar daddy, Bucky was damn sure he knew a way to make the man feel right at home.

“You know that’s not why he’s here,” Tony said when the world stopped spinning, when they were clean and Bucky was tucked fast against his back.

“I know.” Bucky kissed the damp curve of his neck.

Tony reached back and stroked Bucky’s thigh. “And just to clarify, just so we’re 1000% clear: you’re not a sex toy to me, baby. That’s not why I asked you to move in here.”

Bucky chuckled. “Mmm, it kind of was at the beginning. You weren't into my paintings that much. Come on. Be fair.”

“Maybe at the beginning, yeah.” Soft nails in his skin. “There were some selfish reasons. But not now.”

Bucky tucked his face against the top of Tony’s spine. Let himself feel that warm wave of emotion that somehow he'd let Tony stoke in him but that he couldn't let himself say out loud. Not yet. “Yeah, Tony," he murmured. "I know."

He was almost asleep when Tony said it. Almost. Not quite. “Still,” Tony said, “you know what? It wouldn’t hurt to invite the guy over for dinner and cocktails. Some get-to-know-you conversation. Some well meaning 21st century chit-chat, etc. That’d be the neighborly thing to do, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said, halfway to dreamy. “We should do that.”


	2. Chapter 2

The first big lesson that Steve took from the twenty-first century was that everyone was lonely. After almost a month in Stark Tower, he still wasn’t sure if that was by choice.

There were more people in New York than he’d ever seen back in the day, thousands of them; clogging the streets and jammed into the subways, willing sardines who spent the day climbing in and out of tin cans. Nobody talked to each other or even looked up; their eyes were locked on their portable telephones, their ears cocked towards voices that only they could hear. _Earbuds_ , he’d heard somebody call them. _Cellphones_. Whatever. It all kinda gave Steve the creeps.

Technically, he wasn’t supposed to be on the street, anyway; Director Fury had made noises about Steve lying low for a while, until all the news jockeys got bored with his face and his story and moved on to something new: a plane crash or an election upheaval or a dead movie star behind the wheel of a car. _Pray for one of those to come down the pike, Captain_ , Fury had said, the dark eye unblinking. _Because until then, you’ll be the headline every damn day._

Steve decided to believe he was kidding. It was a lot easier to swallow that way.

Still, he found himself retreating from the rest of the city, from its people, more and more every day until he’d been cooped up for almost a week and the thought of going outside, of climbing in the elevator and pushing the button for the ground floor himself made him really uneasy. Yeah, he thought, eyeing his keys hanging by the door, clutching his coffee cup a little tighter, Fury was right. It’d be better if he stayed in.

He read and he drank coffee and he sketched a little when the weather was nice, when he could sit out on the balcony and feel hung up in the sky and let his mind wander enough to set his fingers free, for his pencil to settle on paper and catch.

He watched television sometimes, but there were a lot of buttons involved and the damn thing was too loud. The radio was easier. Most days, the big screen on the wall stayed off.

Fury called him every few days, never made a pretense of small talk. Steve appreciated that. It was just _stay low_ and _do you require assistance_ and _the situation is not nominal. We’ll get back to you when it is_.

Sure, Steve thought every time the line went dead, every time he tucked the receiver back into its cradle. Sure you will.

At night, the silence was different. Deeper somehow, as if the world itself had been muted. In his bedroom with the drapes drawn and the lights off, he couldn’t hear the traffic or the chatter, the hum of people way down on the street. There was just the steady skip of his heart and the sound of his breathing and, much to his damn chagrin, his thoughts. Thoughts that took him places that no longer existed, to people he’d never talk to again, never touch, and he shivered at the separation, the weird stretch of lost time. The ice had been warmer than they were, those thoughts.

One night, he dreamt of Peggy, of her mouth, her body warm and tight beneath his, and he woke up working himself against the mattress, his cock stiff and his face wet, and when he came, creamed the sheets like a desperate kid, it felt so good all over that it _hurt_ , hurt so perfect that he got hard again in his hand, hips arching as he panted and said her name, remembered the weight of her breasts in his hands as she rode him, looked down at him with those deep, forever eyes and said his name over and over and he told himself, disbelieving: _I’ll never see her again_.

It was hard for him to fathom, all that had happened since he’d gone into the water, much less to understand. That was where his loneliness lay, when he finally faced it; he was a man out of time, just like the papers said. Super soldier or no, old hero, whatever; he was a man who didn’t belong.

At least, he didn’t until the morning Bucky showed up.  
 

*****

He was halfway through a piece of toast and a chapter of _Anna Karenina_ when somebody knocked on his door. It startled him so bad he sent his coffee cup flying. And then whoever it was knocked again.

“Captain Rogers?” A man’s voice on the intercom. He sounded the younger side. “You in?”

Maybe it was a reporter, Steve thought, even as he sat down his book and beelined for the front door. Maybe Stark’s security had finally taken its eye off the ball and somebody got through.

“Captain?” the voice called again.

He turned on the exterior camera, got a shot of dark, messy hair falling out of a ponytail. A pretty face and blue eyes, a smear of dark green on one cheek. The hell? He keyed open the comm. “Can I help you?”

The man’s face lit up. “Funny, that’s just what I was gonna ask you.”

“You have me at a disadvantage, then.” The words sounded stiff. “Who are you?”

“I’m Bucky Barnes. Your neighbor. I’m in 3, the one at the far end of the hall. We haven’t met yet, so I thought I’d come by and say hi.”

“How do I know that’s really who you are?”

The guy--Bucky--looked honestly confused. “What? How do you--?" He squinted at the lens. "You want to see my driver’s license or something?”

“That might help.”

“Huh, yeah. I get it. You have to be careful, right?” Bucky patted himself down, looking, Steve presumed, for his wallet. “I mean, always, everybody does, but especially someone like you.”

Steve bristled. “Someone like me?”

“Yeah,” Bucky said absently, still searching. “You know, a celebrity."

A celebrity? Is that what he was? "Oh."

"Mmmm, yeah, Tony has to be really careful that he--ah!” Bucky tugged a battered wallet from his jeans and slipped a card from it, held it up to the lens. “There you go. Do I pass?”

The address was right, and the face. Albeit a younger version with kohl around the eyes and a serious pout. Steve found himself smiling.

“Yes,” he said to the the screen. “You do.”

Bucky pulled the card back and looked up at the camera, his lips defying that long-ago pout. “Cool. You want to come over for a cup of coffee? I’ve been painting all morning and I really need to get out of my own head.”

Steve blinked. “I, uh--”

“No pressure, though." Bucky spread his hands. "I won’t be insulted if you say no, believe me. I’d totally understand.”

Steve could taste dry toast in his throat, the bitter burn of black coffee. He needed a shower and he wasn’t dressed for company and he knew nothing about this guy and yet somehow, for some reason, he was reaching for the door and shooting the electronic lock and when it opened, when Bucky was standing in front of him, wearing battered plaid and paint-splattered jeans and a startled grin, opening that door seemed like the smartest decision he'd made since 1944.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice hoarse and undeniably shy. “Thanks, Mr. Barnes. I’d like that.”


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky’s apartment was beautiful. It was parked on the corner of the building and there were windows everywhere, natural light that made the pale gray walls--the few of them that they were--look iridescent. It was bigger than his place, or it seemed like it; the place was all wide, open space; soft wood floors and blue skies and the sharp smell of fresh paint.

“Sorry about that,” Bucky said sheepishly. He flicked a hand at an easel in the far corner, parked where the two seams of the building meet. “Like I said, I’ve been at it all morning and I’m kind of immune to the smell.”

“It’s fine,” Steve said, trying to look everywhere at once: at the skyline, at the canvases stacked three deep against the floor-to-ceiling windows, at the slim, modern furniture that’s neatly scattered through the space. “It’s nice, actually. Can I see what you’re working on?”

Bucky’s eyes flicked wide. “Yeah, sure. If you want.”

The canvas was big, almost the width of Steve’s outstretched arms and not quite that tall. There was a stool in front of it, a little table; a palette set aside on it, almost careless, the colors on its face flattened by a brush and a knife. On the palette, the colors were faded, almost flat, but on the canvas, god--Steve sucked in a breath and took a step back, took the whole thing in--it seemed like they were singing right to him, a stuttered melody that he could feel rabbit thump in his heart.  There were acres of blues and greens, shades that bled one into the other in a pattern he knew was there but whose outlines he couldn’t quite figure. The whole thing was cut through with a creamy rose red that acted almost as a path, guiding his gaze urgently from end to end and then sending it crashing back again, like greedy waves on a churning sea.

“Mr. Barnes,” he said, dry-mouthed, “this is--”

“You’re welcome to call me Bucky, Captain.”

Steve turned back and met the man’s eye. “Steve. Call me Steve, please.”

“Steve.” Bucky’s mouth lifted for a moment. “What do you think of this one, Steve? I’m not real sure about it.”

“I like it.”

“Yeah? Huh. Well, that’s encouraging. We didn’t exactly part on good terms earlier.”

“Why?” His gaze drifted back to the easel.

Bucky clicked his tongue, hummed. “Mmmm, this might sound weird. Artistic mumbo jumbo, or something.”

“Try me.”

“Well,” Bucky said, “for me, painting works best when I’m letting the work drive, when I’m following its lead rather than trying to force it in any particular direction. That’s what’s been happening here. Or had been, until this morning. Now I think she’s put herself in a stall.”

Steve resisted the urge to touch the canvas itself. Contented his fingers with the edge of the easel instead. “Maybe it’s finished.”

Bucky laughed. He’d stepped closer, Steve noticed; their shoulders were almost touching. “It’s not. As much as I wish it would be. I’d like to move on already. I’ve got a half a dozen ideas I’m itching to get to.” There was a snickt of sound, a quick orange flare. “But this one, she’s still got her hooks in me.”

“You keep calling it a she.”

“Yeah.” Bucky took a drag, a slow heavy pull through the paper that made Steve’s fingers itch.

“You anthropomorphize all your paintings?”

“Only the ones that ask me to.”

A rush of smoke, blue and gorgeous, and good christ, Steve thought, his mouth watering like crazy, it’s been too goddamn long.

He tilted his head. “Can I have one?”

Bucky squinted at him. “One what?”

“A cig.”

Bucky looked a little startled, a little taken aback, and this, Steve thought with a little sink, was exactly why he hadn’t had the guts to buy a pack since he’s been back, why he’s never included cigs on his weekly grocery list. He knew smoking was frowned on now, he’d read the internet. Captain America might have smoked Lucky’s back in the day, but now, there weren’t even cigarette ads in the paper, much less on the radio, and like it or not, he had got a pretty good idea of the kind of phone call he’d get from Fury if he was spotted somewhere buying even a loosie. But watching Bucky pinch one in his teeth, having the thick of the smoke in his nose, he had no goddamn idea why he’d held out so long.

Then the look passed and Bucky’s hand was in his shirt pocket, pulling. “Yeah, sure,” he said. “Here, take the pack. You look like you need it.”

They sat on Bucky’s sofa facing uptown with an ashtray between them. It was a companionable silence, a good one, and with every drag, every glimpse of Bucky’s smile, Steve could feel something tight and coiled within him relax.

“You lived here a long time?” he asked finally.

“In New York? All my life.”

Steve grinned. He knew he liked this guy for a reason. “No, I meant, in this building.”

“Oh.” Bucky tapped out, grinding the filter into the ashes. “For, uh--four years, I think? Give or take.”

Four years? Steve looked at Bucky again, at his beat-up jeans and two-day scruff, his long hair, the colors that swirl along his forearms, hints of tattoos Steve couldn’t quite make out. He was young, that was for sure, less that thirty; young and not at work at 10 o’clock in the morning. Huh. Even in the 30s, it would’ve taken beaucoup dollars just to get in this building, much less to live just below the penthouse. Was Bucky rich? A trust fund kid, somehow? He had to be rolling in money. Did art pay that great in this century? No. It couldn’t.

“Can I ask you something that might be rude?”

Bucky’s lips quirked. “Well, now you have to.”

“Why don’t you live in the Village or someplace? Around other artists, I mean.” He frowned. “If the Village is still a thing.”

“Mmm, it is, yeah. But why would I want to do that?”

“Because,” Steve said. The word came out lame. “Isn’t that what artists do? Feed off each other, trade ideas. Thrive in a, um”--crap, what’s a nice way to say it?--”collective environment?”

Bucky cocked his head. “Maybe.”

“But?”

“But I did the starving artist gig, Steve, for fucking years. And it sucked. I have zero desire to go back down that road, believe me. I worked hard to get off it.” Bucky spread his hands and swept in the sunlight, the big, gorgeous apartment. “So if I have any say in the matter, artistic integrity or no, I’d much rather stay here.”

Maybe it was the half-forgotten rush of tobacco, of having someone to talk to. Maybe he’d had too much coffee. Maybe, after weeks spent in silence, his tact was a thing of the past.

“Bucky?”

Those lazy blue eyes slid to his, quick fingers turning and twisting the lighter. “Hmmm?’

“How the hell did you get here, exactly?”

Bucky grinned, a smile that deepened the longer Steve looks. “Oh, that’s easy. I met Tony Stark.”


	4. Chapter 4

Bucky didn’t say much else about Tony that first morning; it didn’t seem that important. And Steve didn’t ask any questions. Instead, he sat on Bucky’s couch and smoked his way through the whole fucking pack and smiled at the skyline, the river, the high, passing clouds, with something that looked like peace on his face.

That Steve was beautiful wasn’t a shock. That he seemed so fucking fragile, though, that was. The man was like stone spun from bone china. Outwardly, every piece was in place, from his neatly parted hair to his squared-off boots, but there was something rumpled in his aura, something startled, like a kid pulled from a dead sleep onto his feet--which, Bucky thought, in essence, he was. For all the spread of his muscle, the sharp cut of his jaw, Steve was younger than he was, 70 years in the ice notwithstanding, and that first morning, as the captain filled the bright air with blue smoke, he looked like a kid, every inch.

“You should come by tomorrow morning,” Bucky said at the door. “Early, if you want to, long as you don’t mind if I’m working. I get a hell of a sunrise.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Whenever. I’m usually up about five.”

Steve grinned at him, nodded, one foot in the hallway. “Ok. I’ll bring some coffee, alright?”

The next morning, Steve came by. And the next. And by the end of the week, they’d almost settled into a routine: Steve would come over with a book and a fat carafe of coffee and he’d sit still while Bucky worked, breaking the soft silence only with the strike of a match. He didn’t mind if Bucky cussed at the canvas or if he didn’t say a word for three hours; he seemed, Bucky thought, content just to be in the same space.

“Hey,” Steve said the third day when Bucky finally stepped away. “You hungry?”

Which was how Bucky learned that Captain America, in addition to being a champ at punching Nazis, was also a hell of a cook.

“Seriously?” Tony said on Friday night, his features rippling on the bedroom viewscreen. “He’s been in your close and very focused proximity for almost a week and all you can tell me is that he _cooks_?”

Bucky laughed and pulled the band from his hair, felt the sudden weight of curls on his neck. “What’s wrong with that? He seems to dig it, actually. That’s when he’s the most chatty. Did you know he was planning to go to art school before the war? Had the whole thing lined up before Pearl Harbor. And he had a girl, too, somebody named Peggy. I don't remember hearing about her before, do you?"

"No. And he likes to hang out in the kitchen? Good for him. I like a man who knows his way around a pancake.”

“Crepes.”

Tony waved it off. “Whatever. Point is, I can’t freaking believe you haven’t kissed him yet.”

“Hey, nobody’s saying I don’t want to.”

That got him an eyebrow. “And nobody’s stopping you, either.”

“But it’s not just about me, is it?” He tugged off his Henley. “Honestly, Tony, I think what he needs right now is a friend. He seems really...I don’t know. Even when the kid’s smiling, he seems sad.”

Tony’s eyes were softer now, chocolate at the center of a s’more, and all the way from Hong Kong, Bucky could feel their affectionate heat. “The kid, huh? You realize that kid could be your grandfather, right?”

The perfect opening. Bless him. Bucky smirked and reached for his fly. “You know me, daddy," he purred. "I’ve always liked older men.”

Later, when there was come on his fist, on Tony’s far-away chest, he said: “Is it weird that I want to be his friend, Tone?”

“No, baby.” Tony’s voice was sandpaper, his face gorgeously glassy. “It’s not weird at all.”

Bucky looked up into the face of the man who’d rescued him, who’d picked him up all those years ago for a quick, public fuck and ended up kissing him within an inch of his life, rubbing his beard against the turn of Bucky’s throat and telling him how good his dick felt, how tight he was making Tony, how much he never wanted the feeling of Bucky fucking him to end, and when Bucky had come that night, spilling hot into the condom, gasping, Tony had kissed him; clutched Bucky’s face between his fingers and writhed when Bucky got a hand on him, and somehow, somehow, those ten minutes behind a semi-shit gallery had turned into this whole other life, a whole different kind of pleasant negotiation.

“I miss you,” Bucky said. _I love you_.

“Yeah?” A sleepy smile, a quiet kind of acknowledgement. “That’s funny. I miss you, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

In the morning, Bucky was groggy, a little grumpy. Talking to Tony when he was traveling always did weird things to him--messed with his heart’s equilibrium or something, tripped up his center of balance. When he was in town, Tony was always busy, too: fundraisers and R&D meetings and dinners with politicians that, when they were most successful, lasted late into the night. Still, unless Bucky begged off, Tony always came home to him, bow tie hanging limp from his neck, his throat flush from fancy scotch, his hands itching with restless energy born of hours making small talk, of making nice with people he didn’t particularly care for but who could help the Stark Foundation or Stark Industries take the next step forward in the world. It bored Tony, being Mr. Tony Stark, having the whole room look to him for decisions and snappy comments, playing the role of He Who’s In Charge, He Who Has His Shit Together when in Bucky’s arms, in their bed, he sure as fuck did not.

The first time he’d really understood they’d been in Tony’s big, ridiculous bed, the blinds open and the night sky singing around them. It was three months since the gallery, two since they’d set the terms of their arrangement, and Bucky could count on one hand the numbers of times they’d met at Tony’s place to play instead of in some swanky hotel. That night, Tony was fresh home from some black-tie bullshit, fresh home and handsy and after a handful of kisses, Bucky had tossed him in the bed and unwrapped him, peeled back the layers of wool and cotton and silk and kissed every inch of his body: his ribs and his hips to the hair on his chest, black tempered with gray; licked the soft insides of his thighs and petted his cock until Tony was begging, his back bowed and his voice cracked and dirty and desperate and Bucky had grinned at him, nuzzled the head of Tony’s pretty cock and said: “Shhhhh, daddy, don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get what you want.”

He remembered the look on Tony’s face, the way his expression had frozen for an instant, like a bird caught in a single frame of flight: a picture of pure, naked want. Remembered the lightning in his spine, the way that look made him feel so goddamn greedy, the way it made his cock jerk in his jeans.

He’d reached for the lube. Fought to keep his voice steady. “You want to come on my cock, don’t you, hmmm?” He’d stroked the tight clench with wet fingers. “Say it. Come on. Let me hear you, daddy.”

“Oh, yes.” The words like water in the desert. “Oh, fuck, baby.”

“I don’t think I can wait much longer. You’ve made me so fucking hot. I think I might just take out my dick and do it like this.”

“ _Shit_.” Tony had yanked at Bucky’s hair and made a noise that would’ve woken up the neighbors if there’d been any. “Yes, damn it,” he panted. “Don’t tease me. Do it, do it. I need you. Please. Oh, god, Bucky, please.”

He’d come apart when Bucky turned him over, shoved Tony’s face into the sheets and opened his jeans and rolled on a rubber and fucked in too hard and too fast. Bucky has still been wearing his shirt, for god’s sake, still had his shoelaces tied, and there was Tony laid bare before him, a living altar pleading with Bucky to come deep inside.

“Bucky,” he’d managed. “Buck, come on. I want to feel you.”

Bucky’s hips hitched and he bit the back of Tony’s neck, vicious. “Yeah? Daddy doesn’t feel me now? I must not be doing this right.”

Tony let out a breathy, hot groan. “I love it when you call me that.”

“Mmm, I know.” Bucky could feel his balls swelling, feel that sweet knot grow in his gut. “Makes you so tight.”

“I love seeing your face when you say it.”

"You do, huh?"

“God, yes." Tony twisted his head, moaned against Bucky's cheek. "So put me on my back and make your daddy come just like that.”

They’d held each other for a long time, after, stroking each other’s skin in the dark.

“I wish I could see you more,” Tony murmured.

Bucky stirred, his hand winding lazily down Tony’s back. “Yeah? Two days a week not enough?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“I’m open to renegotiation. What did you have in mind?”

“How far ahead have I paid the rent on your shitkicker apartment?”

“Shitkicker?” Bucky chuckled. “I prefer frugal, thanks.”

That got him a sharp poke in the side. “Ok, how many months ahead are you on the rent for your frugal shithole of an apartment?”

“Three.” Bucky kissed Tony’s temple, nuzzled the damp line of his hair. “You’ve been very generous, daddy.”

Tony’s breath hitched. “And what do you think of this place? Do you like it?”

“This place?”

“My apartment. My building.”

“Is that even a question?” Bucky’d laughed. “They’re fucking gorgeous, Tony. You don’t need me to tell you that.”

“What would you think about living here, then?”

“What?”

Tony sat up a little and peered into Bucky’s eyes. “There’s an open apartment on the floor below this one. It’s yours if you want it.”

Bucky swallowed. “It’s--?”

“It’d be yours, just to be clear. Your name on the lease and everything. But I’d cover the rent; I’ve been doing that anyway. Sometimes I’ve used it for guests.”

Bucky remembered Tony’s hand on his chest, the way that it’d trembled. The gentle heat in his eyes. His own voice, stuttering: “Tony, god, that’s”--too much? Too generous? Too territorial?--“I don’t know. It’s a lot.”

“It would be yours,” Tony said again. “I wouldn’t wander in and out of it or anything. Not without your permission.” He’d flashed a nervous smile. “I’m a good landlord like that.”

“Jesus.” Bucky had closed his eyes, his head spinning, his heart spilling unruly bullshit in his brain. “You’ve done so much else for me already, I can’t just--“

“And you’ve done a lot for me, too. It’s a two-way street here, Barnes. Don’t you forget that.”

He’d peeled back his lids and seen Tony looking down at him, his mouth set in a long, worried line.

“Thank you,” he’d said finally, reaching up to stroke Tony’s neck. “I just need to think about it for a few days. Is that ok?”

The joy on Tony’s face then, god, like it was Christmas or something. Like he couldn’t wait for Bucky to open his gift. “Ok,” he’d said. “Yeah. I can wait.”

Now, standing in front of a recalcitrant canvas at the crack of goddamn dawn, clutching a brush and a cup of Steve Rogers-made coffee, he missed that smile. Missed the sound of Tony’s voice, the real one, one fed right into his ear, not coming at him from a screen. He missed the feel of Tony’s hands on his hips, the way he liked to curl around Bucky’s back on those mornings when he slept over, when they’d been having too much fun for him to trudge out to the elevator and make the five-second trip to the top floor. Tony wasn’t a morning person at fucking all, would’ve slept till noon everyday if his business had let him, but he always got up early at Bucky’s place; would pad out naked or wearing Bucky’s boxers and slide up behind him, tuck his cheek between Bucky’s shoulders and hold on to him as his brush turned this way and that.

He missed that this morning, missed the feel of Tony’s hair, the sound of his not-quite awake breathing. The press of Tony’s sleepy dick against the curve of his ass. Shit, he missed--

“Hey,” Steve said. There was a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, bigger than Tony's was, broader. “Bucky, hey. You alright?”


	6. Chapter 6

Bucky didn’t look up. “Yeah, sure. I’m fine.”

There’d been a cloud around him all morning that even two cups of coffee and two bites of a sticky bun hadn’t managed to chase away. He didn’t seem ill or anything, Steve thought, just down. Maybe more than a little sad. It wasn’t like Bucky was usually a chatterbox or anything, especially this early; he seemed to concentrate best in those early hours, his brush moving, his head bobbing almost as if he were in a trance. But something was different today. His movements were sluggish, like he was dragging himself through heavy water, and there were lines on his face that Steve hadn’t seen before, a shadow in his eyes.

Still, Steve wasn’t sure what in the world had made him set his book aside and get to his feet and put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, of all things. God, they’d only know each other a few days, for crying out loud, and here he was squeezing the guy like they were buddies or something. When was the last time that he’d done that?

He felt a swell of panic in his chest, like he was falling, drowning; thinking about time like that always fucked him up. _No_ , he told himself fiercely. He stomped the feeling down, ground it like a flickering cig. _Shut up. This isn’t about me._

Besides, Bucky hadn’t ducked away, had he? Hadn’t so much as twitched. Was statue still under the gentle pressure of Steve’s palm.

“Bad night?” Steve asked.

“Long night.” Bucky shifted on his feet. Leaned a little into Steve’s touch. “Tony called really late; the time difference, you know. The international date line's a bitch.”

“I see.”

Bucky lifted his head, the corners of his lips edging up. “No, you don’t.”

Good lord. Steve’s gut did a somersault and there was a thought, a sonic fucking boom: Bucky was beautiful, wasn’t he?

He’d noticed right away, that first day; of course he had. He wasn’t blind. But objectively acknowledging the man’s beauty and seeing it up close like this--touching him like this, barely, like dragging his fingertips through a lake--that was a whole other creature entirely.

Bucky’s hair was pulled back in a low, reluctant ponytail, waves escaping this way and that. His face was covered in scruff; had it been like that yesterday? How long had it been since he shaved? He was wearing a threadbare blue Henley that he hadn’t bothered to button and frayed-looking pair of jeans. He smelled sleepy, a little stale, like he hadn’t bothered to shower, and Steve had this picture of him rolling straight out of bed a couple of hours ago to come open the door and let Steve in and shit, for some reason, that thought made him incredibly hot. Bucky hadn’t bothered to shower, had he? Hadn't bothered to put on fresh clothes. Hadn’t done a damn thing to make himself presentable for company. He’d just gotten up and shot the lock and let Steve waltz on in in the gray hours of the morning, and there was something intimate about that, wasn't there? Something trusting and open and wide. They barely knew each other and Bucky was treating him like he was family and that more than even the man's beauty made a part of Steve’s heart quiver and shake.

And not just his heart.

Bucky was talking. Shit. What was he saying?

“Tony’s my boyfriend,” Bucky said. “The guy who owns this building, you know. Mr. Stark. He’s been in Hong Kong this week. They’re twelve hours ahead. He snuck out of some lunch meeting to keep me up past my bedtime. You should've seen him; he was damned proud of himself.”

Tony. The man Bucky had mentioned that first morning, the one who’d gotten him here. His boyfriend. His boyfriend was--? Oh. _Oh_.

“Huh,” Steve managed. “That wasn’t very nice of him.”

Bucky chuckled. “No, it wasn’t. But I humor him, you know. He misses me. And god knows I miss him like crazy.”

It was only then that Steve noticed his hand had slipped, slid from its perch on Bucky’s shoulder to cover the warm curve of his back.  

Steve swallowed, did not move his hand away, said: “How long have you all, uh--?”

Bucky shrugged. “Four years, kind of. More like three in the ways that really count.”

“What ways are those?”

“Tsk tsk. Nosy today, aren’t you Sherlock?” Bucky’s eyes were in his, full-on blue skies, only the smallest trace left of the clouds, a sunrise of a smile. Jesus. No wonder Steve couldn't breathe.

“You brought it up.”

And everything was fine, really it was, until Bucky Barnes, his only friend in this strange new world, reached up and touched him, pressed his fingers to the sudden, trembling heat of Steve’s cheek. “God,” Bucky said softly, an edge of something sharp. “I hope so.”


End file.
